September 1946
From her accustomed place in the fourth pew on the left, Amethyst watched as Dixon Lee Godwin entered from the side door of the sanctuary and stepped onto the platform. She had always thought he cut an impressive figure in the pulpit, but her perception of him had changed over the past few months. No longer did she merely see a tall, rugged-looking fellow with hair graying nicely at the temples or hear the low, vibrant tone of his voice as he spoke.
She had looked into his heart, had heard the resonance of conviction that reverberated through his soul. She had watched him put his beliefs into action with passion and determination, had seen him take a bold, unflinching stand for justice.
And she loved him.
The organist had begun the prelude—a soul-stirring rendition of “Great Is Thy Faithfulness.” Amethyst closed her eyes and sang the words in her mind: All I have needed, Thy hand hath provided. Great is Thy faithfulness, Lord, unto me.
When she opened her eyes and looked down the pew, she was reminded again of the truth of those words. To her left sat her son, Conrad, with several of his buddies from the university. Con turned to Clarence Bogart and whispered something that made Bogey smile. At the far end, much to Amethyst’s surprise, hunched Dooley Layton with his head down and his eyes fixed on the floor.
Dooley looked a bit the worse for wear this morning. His right cheek was bruised, his lip was cut, and a bandage hid most of his nose. Clearly the boy had been in a fight—and pretty recently, if his wounds were any indication.
Then Conrad reached for a hymnal, and Amethyst caught a glimpse of his right hand. The fingers were swollen and a little blue, the knuckles skinned down to the flesh.
She grimaced, but before she could get Conrad’s attention, the organist began playing the introductory bars of the first hymn. She rose to her feet and slanted a glance at her son. Con was pointing at the order of service, and he and Bogey were elbowing each other and grinning.
Amethyst took up her own bulletin and scanned it. Dix’s sermon title this morning was “Fighting the Good Fight.”
Well, that boy is in for a good talking-to, she thought automatically. Then she remembered. She had given him up to God. Amethyst didn’t approve of fighting, but Con had to make his own decisions now. And if he had been duking it out with Dooley Layton, maybe he had a good reason.
When the hymn had ended, Dix stood up, faced the congregation, and smiled. His eyes lingered on Amethyst for just a moment, and she felt a warm flush creep up her neck.
“I want to welcome you all to this service of worship,” he said. “Especially those of you who are worshiping with us for the first time.” His gaze focused on the back of the church. “Some of you, I see, are still waiting to be seated. Please, come down front and join us.”
All eyes turned, and a hush fell over the congregation.
It was Bailey Blue, gripping Silvie’s hand. Behind them, a cluster of black faces surveyed the crowd.
Amethyst’s heart jumped in her chest. She held her breath. And then, without a word, Bailey and Silvie came down the aisle and slipped into the pew next to Amethyst. The others scattered throughout the congregation.
Behind her, Amethyst heard a rustling noise and turned to see Will Tarbush getting to his feet. A tall Negro man, with his wife and two little children in tow, had just invaded Will’s pew. He slammed his hymnal into the pew rack, squeezed past the man and his family, and lurched out into the center aisle. “I didn’t come to church to sit next to no coloreds,” he declared at the top of his voice. He stomped down the aisle, made his exit, and slammed the door behind him.
No one moved. No one spoke.
Dix picked up his Bible from the pulpit and cleared his throat. “In the gospel of John, chapter 6, Jesus presented some very difficult teachings to those who were following after him—teachings that seemed to fly in the face of their long-held traditions. Some of the disciples, verse 66 tells us, left him and no longer followed him. Interestingly enough, Jesus did not go after them and beg them to come back. Instead, he turned to his disciples and asked, ’Will ye also go away?’ It’s as if the Lord were saying, ‘if you want to leave, now’s your chance. Make your decision to stay or go.’”
His gaze swept over the congregation, and with a surge of pride Amethyst saw the expression of fearless conviction in his eyes. “We face that same decision today, this moment,” Dix went on. “Whether we will bend to the teachings of Christ and let our hearts be changed, or hold on to attitudes from the past. If you want to leave, now’s your chance.”
Someone in the back coughed. Feet shuffled. Papers rustled. But no one moved to go. Not even Dooley Layton, who still sat at the end of the pew with his eyes downcast.
Dix looked around. “Fine. Now, let’s all rise and greet one another in the peace of Christ.”
Amethyst stood up and turned to Silvie. “The peace of the Lord be with you,” she said.
Silvie’s arms went around her, and they stood there hugging while others milled around them, shaking hands and murmuring welcomes. It was a familiar embrace, one Amethyst had experienced many times over the past forty-five years. And yet here, today, in God’s house, it seemed warmer somehow. More significant. More right.
“I feel like I’ve waited for this day forever,” Silvie whispered in Amethyst’s ear.
“So have I,” Amethyst responded. “It’s about time.”
Amethyst had difficulty focusing her attention on the rest of the service. She rarely drifted when Dix was preaching, but this particular morning, with Silvie’s hand clutching hers, her mind swirled with memories.
How would Silas and Pearl have felt, she wondered, if they could see her at this moment, sitting in the house of God next to Booker’s granddaughter and her handsome, educated husband-to-be? Her grandparents had longed, prayed, given their lives’ energy for such a time as this. Amethyst suspected—she hoped, at least—that from their vantage point in the presence of God, they would know that their labors had not been in vain.
In her mind’s eye, she could envision the two of them, standing on the front porch of Noble House, hand in hand, just as she and Harper had stood on the day of their wedding.
She could see Harper, too, but in her vision his crippled limbs were straight and strong, the scars on his face erased by the power of love. The dimple in his cheek deepened as he smiled, and his blue eyes radiated joy. She could almost see him wink and nod to her, as if offering a benediction on the growing love between Amethyst and Dixon Lee Godwin. Harper would approve of Dix, she knew instinctively. She had put her grief behind her and moved on, but Harper would always be a part of her, reaffirming the truth that it was the heart, not the outward appearance, that mattered in the sight of God.
Other faces paraded through her mind. Black and white, scarred and smooth, old and young. Some, like Silvie and Dix, graced her life today. Others, like her grandparents and Harper, had already finished their course. But each of them had influenced her own path, helped direct her along the road she had walked.
Pearl’s journals, Silas’s healing touch, Booker’s faith. These were the first footpaths, the original legacy of the Noble name. Enoch’s dignity, Silvie’s faithfulness, and Harper’s love had led her further down the way. And now people like Dix and Bailey had come into her life, confirming the birthright of those early years and illuminating the passages that still lay before her.
Everything fit. When she turned and looked behind her, Amethyst could see the pattern, the winding roads and intersections of lives that had led her to this place and this time. Her grandparents’ bequest: Sincerity. Purity. Nobility.
Unconsciously, Amethyst’s hand went to her neck, and her throat tightened. The brooch was gone, but the heritage Silas and Pearl had left behind need not die.
Let the legacy live on, she prayed silently. Let what we do here, now and in the future, honor those who came before us and serve as an example for those who follow. . . .
A rustling around her caught Amethyst’s attention. She opened her eyes and looked up. The sermon had ended, and the organist had begun the opening strains of the offertory hymn.
When peace like a river attendeth my way,
When sorrows like sea billows roll.
Whatever my lot, Thou hast taught me to say,
It is well, it is well with my soul.
Silvie caught her eye and smiled at her, and Amethyst didn’t need to ask what Silvie was thinking. They had known peace like a river and sorrows like sea billows. They had endured inward struggles and outward conflicts. But they had come through it—together. They had grown. They had learned. They had found a place of belonging, and the love that comes from the deepest heart of God. It was well with their souls.
The offering plate came down the row, and Amethyst fumbled in her bag for her tithe. She frowned at Conrad, who was jiggling the brass plate in front of her and grinning. Couldn’t the boy be just a little patient with his old mother? Then she looked down.
Amid the crumpled bills and coins, she caught a flash of color. Something shiny, set in gold. Something purple. With trembling fingers she pushed the bills aside. Then she saw it.
An outline of tiny pearls. In the center—shimmering, vibrant, reflecting back the lights in the sanctuary and pulsing as if it had a life of its own—a radiant, heart-shaped brooch of deep amethyst.
And one of the pearls was missing.